Jaywalkers and Pigeons
by Kura Sumi
Summary: A short drabble about Rorschach written long ago. He walks down the city streets and thinks about things. Mainly pigeons, and how they remind him of the days when the Watchmen were a thing. Your mileage may vary. Please read AN and review if you like!


**Hello! I'm still undecided upon the upload of this document as to whether this will remain a one-shot or whether I'll continue adding chapters. If it continues on, each chapter will be different comic book characters most likely not from the same comics. I just happened to start with Rorschach.**

**If this does remain a one-shot, enjoy! This was written quite a while ago and has been rotting in my documents for quite a while.**

**If you'd like to see more chapters, leave character suggestions! This was intended as a writing exercise so I cannot guarantee any characters acting as they normally would, since that isn't my focus.**

**BOOP!** **~K_S**

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><p><strong>RORSCHACH<strong>

_Rorschach's journal, September 15, 1985_

Pushed jaywalker into open traffic this morning. Let cars take care of work for me today. Squashing bugs myself always gets gloves dirty—would rather not visit dry-cleaners later tonight. Too many weeds to pull from city streets before sun sets and resets clock again.

Crows watch from fence, perhaps anticipating hot breakfast. Crows. Indecent birds that pick gum from underside of city's shoe. Good birds. Clean up after me; make job easier. Better than pigeons. Rats with wings sit on stoops and wait for crumbs to be tossed at their feet like swollen kings on thrones far too small for their egos. Time for underdogs to have scraps of meat tossed in their direction.

Stand on street corner and watch as crows light down on bloody asphalt. Dark birds on dark canvas of gory masterpiece. Watch with quiet intensity of painting professor at high-end art museum. Mona Lisa lies spread-eagle on swatch of black as morning school bus filled with children files by. Birds aren't phased by passing yellow monster, but children have no artistic taste. Little girl balks at scene before bus tears her eyes away. Shrug shoulders and start down sidewalk. No time to wait for police to come and pick up road kill. Too much work to do.

Pass under nearby bridge and break left pinky of drug dealer waiting for client in shadows. Would have broken right, but other hand was already in cast. Suspect earlier run-ins with street scum. Bend index finger beyond breaking point for good measure. Drug dealer screams like whipped dog. Don't care, and nobody listens. Cries bounce off concrete walls and back to deaf ears.

Victories are beginning to feel hollow. Mongrels of city retreat into shadows to lick wounds and return again when recovered. Never-ending population of dogs on street makes work unbearable after passing of Keene Act. Briefly hope for reappearance of old friends to help thin herd. Shrug off thoughts and snap drug dealer's middle finger after short respite. No time for sentiment in face of adversary.

Screaming dog is wearing chain around neck like gaudy collar. Use it to lash mangled hand to fire hydrant near feet—chances of untying buckle with broken bones are slim.

Sound of swerving tires pulls attention away from work. Down street, battered green car misses running over jaywalker by inches. Crows take off in chorus of catcalls reminiscent to sandpaper on blackboard. Birds retreat to fence and wait, cautious, for more cars to come.

Drop whimpering drug dealer on concrete and leave him for police to discover when they pick up Mona Lisa. Gust of wind picks up and blows litter down sidewalk like tumbleweeds in ghost town. Almost chuckle at comparison of city to glamorized western wild; turn to leave without second thought but something amidst discarded newspapers catches eye. Clear away scraps of paper and lift glossy black feather from cold floor. Put in pocket for later. Perhaps crows will follow—help purge city of sickness.

Perhaps.

_Rorschach's journal, September 17, 1985_

No crows today. Passed smear of dried blood on road where city ordinance scraped Mona Lisa off pavement. Dark birds were nowhere to be seen. Suspect jaywalker left bad taste in their mouths. Murder fled to greener pastures when job seemed done, to sit on couches and let equipment rot in cellar, to flee into dark hovels under roof of government branches, and grow fat from lack of exposure to earth's dirty underbelly. Dropped feather on cement. Parallels to own life were too obvious; wanted to avoid distraction while working eternal shift alone.

Alone.

_Hurm…_

Getting used to it.


End file.
